The House of the Red Slayer

morning, but bind him well!’
    The murderer threw one ferocious look at Fulke before Colebrooke and his soldiers hustled him out of the door. Athelstan sighed and looked round.
    ‘Sir Fulke, Mistress Philippa, I am sorry.’
    Philippa buried her face in her uncle’s shoulder and silently wept. Sir Fulke just looked away.
    ‘Sir John,’ Athelstan said, ‘we are finished here.’ He put his writing implements back into the canvas bag, bowed to Sir Fulke and followed Sir John down the now darkening steps.
    Outside Cranston took a deep breath. ‘Thank God that’s over, Brother!’
    They walked under the forbidding mass of Wakefield Tower where they waited whilst a servant scurried back to the North Bastion tower to collect Cranston’s dagger.
    ‘A true murderer,’ Sir John said quietly.
    ‘Aye!’ Athelstan replied. ‘Insane or possessed, driven by hatred and revenge.’ He looked up at the ravens cawing noisily above them. ‘I’ll be glad to be free of here, Sir John. This place has the stink of death about it.’
    ‘It is called the House of the Red Slayer.‘
    ‘It’s well named,’ Athelstan replied.
    They stood aside as Colebrooke marched by, Parchmeiner now tightly bound, almost hidden in the middle of his guards. The servant came back with Cranston’s dagger and they left for the nearest tavern.
    Sir John, of course, demanded refreshment after what he called his ‘arduous labours’. Athelstan matched him cup for cup until they separated. Sir John went back to continue his rejoicing whilst Athelstan led a protesting Philomel up Billingsgate and across London Bridge to the dark loneliness of St Erconwald’s.

    A few days later, on Christmas Eve, Athelstan sat at his bench just inside the chancel screen, cradling a purring, contented Bonaventure on his lap. The friar looked around the sanctuary. All was ready for Christmas. The altar had a fresh cloth trimmed in gold, the sanctuary had been swept, the altar decorated with holly and ivy, the greenery and blood red berries shimmering in the candlelight. The children had rehearsed their mummers’ play. Athelstan laughed softly remembering how Crim, who had played the role of Joseph, had disrupted the proceedings by a short fist fight with one of the angels. Cecily had swept the nave and dusted the ledgers, and tomorrow he would celebrate three Masses: one at dawn, one mid-morning and the other at noon. Athelstan closed his eyes. He would remember his dead, his parents and his brother Francis, the men killed so violently in the Tower, as well as young Parchmeiner who would surely hang.
    The bishop had given him permission to re-consecrate the cemetery and Pike the ditcher had announced that Doctor Vincentius had left. Benedicta had been upset and Athelstan still felt wracked by feelings of guilt. He absentmindedly kissed Bonaventure between the ears. He had apologised to all concerned for his ill temper on the morning he had heard about Tosspot’s grave being desecrated. Athelstan sighed. All seemed to be in order, but was it? Christmas would pass, the Feast of the Epiphany would come, and with it fresh problems. Perhaps he would arrange a feast, a banquet for the parish council, to thank them for their kindness? Watkin had given him a new spoon made of horn; Ursula the pig woman a flitch of bacon; Pike the ditcher a new hoe for the garden; Ranulf the rat-catcher a pair of moleskin gloves and Benedicta, God bless her, a thick woollen cloak against the rigours of winter. Yet tomorrow, after Mass, he would be alone. Athelstan stared at the candle flames. Did God hide behind the fire? he wondered. He closed his eyes.
    ‘Oh, Lord of the hidden flame,’ he prayed, ‘why is it so terrible to be alone?’ He jumped, then grinned as the church door was flung open. ‘Good Lord,’ Athelstan breathed. ‘I have heard of the power of prayer but this is truly miraculous!‘
    ‘Monk!’ Cranston bellowed, standing like a Colossus swathed in robes at the back of the church. ‘I know you are here, Athelstan. Where are you bloody well hiding? By the sod, it’s too early for your damned stars!’
    Athelstan rose and walked under the chancel screen. ‘Sir John, you are most welcome.’ He looked carefully at the coroner. ‘Surely not another murder?’
    ‘I bloody well hope not!’ Cranston roared, walking up the church, beating his hands together. ‘I need some refreshment, Brother. You will join me?’
    ‘Of course, Sir John, but this time I